


You Don't Spell It... You Feel It

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cosy af, Could be read as ace, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Reading Aloud, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: In 1927, Crowley shows up on Aziraphale's doorstep for the first time since their argument in St. James's Park. He comes bearing gifts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 90
Kudos: 208





	You Don't Spell It... You Feel It

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a single sitting because last night i was Sad™ and ended up bundled in a blanket with some hot chocolate and an audiobook of winnie-the-pooh.
> 
> enjoy, and hmu on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if u want chat :D
> 
> edit: now with a [spangly new podfic available](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741322), read by me!

**London, February 1927**

February always took Aziraphale by surprise. November was buoyed by Bonfire Night and the delicious smell of woodsmoke on the air, and of course December fairly sparkled with lights and excitement. He had always felt slightly sorry for January, starting as it did with such high hopes before inevitably falling victim to its own long nights and cold mornings. And that was to say nothing of how long it was, dragging itself out for day after miserable, shivering day with nothing to look forwards to and nothing to break the monotony. By the time February rolled around, Aziraphale's patience with winter was worn very thin indeed, and he struggled to find anything to enjoy about the month besides its merciful shortness.

As such, he had spent the last two weeks in a foul mood, stomping about the bookshop and being even ruder to his customers than usual. The previous Saturday, he had bitten the head off a young woman looking for a copy of _The Counterfeiters_ , and the look of shock and hurt on her face had cut him to the quick. He'd done what he could to make it up to her, blessing her thoroughly and ensuring that she left the bookshop more contented than she came in,[1] and solemnly promised himself he would behave better when the shop opened again on Monday.

He lasted until about half past eleven. The weather had been foul all morning, wet and insipid without even the energy to have a good storm. His first customer had been an insufferable bore with a habit of cutting Aziraphale off every second sentence or so, and whose insistence on telling Aziraphale how to do his job was directly inverse to his actual knowledge of the trade. Within ten minutes of talking to the man, Aziraphale could feel a headache coming on.[2]

After that came a cluster of young men seeking love poems to give to their sweethearts. Aziraphale would usually have been well-disposed towards them, but today their earnest proclamations of love grated on him, and he found himself biting back successive waves of irritation.

By eleven, he was near breaking point. At ten past, an elderly woman came in from the rain and shook her umbrella dry with enough vigour to spray water across all surfaces within a five foot radius. At twenty past, she sneezed on a mint edition of _Dracula_. By half past eleven Aziraphale was sat with a cup of tea on the sofa in his back room, eyes closed, door locked, sign flipped firmly to CLOSED.

He took a mouthful of tea and sighed, hugging the mug to his chest. That was better. He would try again tomorrow, he decided, when he had had enough time to gather his temper. Perhaps he would take himself for lunch, though the thought of eating alone made part of him wince slightly.

There were friends he could call on, of course. He was a familiar face in any number of salons and clubs in the area, and well-known in certain artistic circles. The thought of them seemed exhausting though, each conversation a small performance, well-honed but no less false for all his long practice. Aziraphale toed off his shoes and pulled his feet up to tuck them underneath him. The rain beat lacklustre against the windows. He swallowed hard against an old, familiar hollowness in his chest – a smooth-worn space where something important used to be. He was almost used to the feeling by now.

The bell above the front door rang suddenly, breaking through his thoughts. Annoyance flashed through him, bright and cold.

“We're closed!” he called out irritably, setting down his mug and stomping[3] out to give the intruder a piece of his mind. “I don't know what you think you're doing-”

He broke off, stopping in his tracks. There in front of the door was Crowley, wiping his feet on the doormat and hanging up a hat soaked through from the rain. He started to dry his sunglasses on his handkerchief and when he looked up and saw Aziraphale, the expression on his face was a ridiculous cocktail of sheepishness, embarrassment, and barely-contained excitement. For a moment it seemed neither of them could think what to say. Crowley's mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally found his voice.

“Hullo,” he managed. “Sorry about barging in. Would have waited on the step only, well, it's a bit wet out there.” He fidgeted with his glasses, but did not put them back on. When Aziraphale didn't answer, he tried again. “Place is looking nice. Love the, um. The books. Shelves. You know.”

Aziraphale didn't say anything. Couldn't have, even if he'd wanted to. He just about managed to close his mouth, but his brain was still reeling. He couldn't quite process this strange, new Crowley – so familiar, but so different in his modern suit, hair slicked back to reveal his widows peak, his face strangely vulnerable without the bushy sideburns he'd been sporting the last time Aziraphale had seen him. Crowley fell quiet under the weight of Aziraphale's stare. For a long moment, the only sound was the shiver of wind in the trees outside, the distant noise of traffic barely breaking through the quiet of the shop. Finally, Crowley spoke again.

“I... I know it's been a while,” he began.

“Sixty four years,” said Aziraphale. He pursed his lips. “Give or take.”

“Right. Yeah. Um.”

Aziraphale could see the apology hanging in the air between them, and his first instinct was to harden himself against it, insist on having it said out loud with sincerity and all appropriate penitence. But then his eyes found Crowley's, open and honest as the day they had met in the Garden, and his resolve crumbled.

“You look well,” he said softly, taking a step forwards. Crowley's smile was hesitant but genuine.

“Thanks,” he said. “You too.”

“Are you in town long?”

“Uh, yeah, actually. Been here for... Well. For a bit.”

The admission stung less than Aziraphale would have expected. He had always suspected Crowley was in London somewhere, and the confirmation was as much as a confession from Crowley that he had been actively avoiding Aziraphale, at least to some degree. But with every step across the shop floor, Aziraphale found it harder and harder to care.

“That was you, in May,” he smiled. It wasn't a question – the General Strike had had Crowley's fingerprints all over it. “Though, I couldn't quite tell which side you were on.”

Crowley laughed softly. “Come on, angel, you know me better than that. Both, of course.”

The pet name sent a shiver of pleasure down Aziraphale's spine. He was close enough now that he could smell Crowley's aftershave, something new and heady that Aziraphale already knew he was going to grow to love. He stopped, arms length from Crowley, unsure of quite how to procede. Crowley was watching him carefully, his lips barely parted, and Aziraphale had to look away, unable to bear the space that hung between them.

In doing so, his eyes fell on a parcel under Crowley's arm, small and square and wrapped in brown paper. Crowley saw him looking, and followed the line of his gaze.

“Oh!” he said, as if he was only now remembering the parcel existed. “Yes, this – it's a present, actually. It was what made me... That is, I saw it and it reminded me- Well. I thought you'd enjoy it, anyway. It's nothing important,” he added hastily as he handed it over to Aziraphale. “I mean, it's not a big deal or anything. I just thought... You know.”

“Oh, dear boy, that's too kind,” Aziraphale said warmly. “Thank you! Shall I open it now?”

Crowley shrugged, not quite convincingly. “Whatever you like,” he said, in a tone that suggested he would very much like to see Aziraphale open it.

Of course Aziraphale obliged. He felt around the parcel's edges and pulled a thoughtful face. “A book?” he guessed. Crowley scoffed.

“Course it's a book,” he said. “What else would I get you?”

Aziraphale undid the string and started to pull off the paper, revealing a little white book with a black line illustration on the cover. He raised his eyebrows. “A children's book?” he said, surprised but not ungrateful.

“I've been spending a bit of time as a governess – work stuff, you know, getting the ear of this lord about a bill he's going to- Anyway, not the point. The little boy I look after, he got a copy of this for Christmas, and as soon as I read it – for his bedtime story, you know – as soon as I read I thought...” He trailed off, his ears turning pink. “I just mean, I think you'll like it, that's all,” he finished weakly.

Of course, Crowley had found a way to incorporate reading a child bedtime stories into his manipulation of a high-powered government official. Aziraphale swallowed against the wave of affection that broke through him, though he couldn't help the softness that made its way into his voice.

“Thank you very much, my dear,” he said, more tenderly than he should have.

“You're welcome,” Crowley said, quite as gently. The moment hung between them, unspoken and perfect. Then Crowley grinned. “Now – what do you say we get some lunch?”  
Aziraphale shot a doubtful look out the window. “You know I'd usually be all for it...”

“Oh, don't worry about the weather, angel,” said Crowley. He slipped his glasses back on and let his smile turn truly devilish. “I've got a new ride.”

#

**London, October 2019**

In the flat above the bookshop, Aziraphale pulled the living room curtains closed with a satisfied sigh. There was a fire burning in the grate, the sound and smell of it adding as much to the cosy quiet of the room as the warmth. A lamp in the corner diffused soft light through the room, picking out the old wooden bookshelves, the squashy sofa – and the angular streak of demon currently taking up more than his fair share of said sofa.

Aziraphale went to the mantelpiece and started to light the little row of candles lined up there, careful not to knock any of Crowley's plants out of their place. He stroked his finger down a trailing frond of fern. In the last few months, sudden little blushes of green had started cropping up all over the bookshop and the flat. He wasn't sure if Crowley was bringing them from his own apartment or if he had bought them specially to decorate Aziraphale's space. Regardless, he loved them all – reminders of Crowley and his cleverness, his creativity, his careful love.

“You're beautiful,” he told the fern, fondly.

“You'll spoil it,” drawled Crowley from the sofa.

“Oh, you're awake, are you?”

Crowley made a non-committal noise. He had one arm thrown over his eyes, the other hanging languid off the side of the sofa. He wore his usual skinny jeans, but with a pair of thick, ugly woollen socks that would have clashed with his ensemble quite unforgivably if he hadn't also been wearing an ugly woollen jumper he'd dug out of the back of Aziraphale's wardrobe. Stretched out as he was, the bottom of the jumper had ridden up slightly, revealing a strip of skin and a trail of red hair leading up towards his naval.

A plan began to form in Aziraphale's mind. “Would you like to watch something?” he said, keeping his voice light.

Crowley shrugged, not moving his arm from across his eyes. Softly, Aziraphale made his way towards the sofa.

“Or we could listen to something, if you'd prefer – a radio play, perhaps?”

“Do they still do radio plays?” Crowley mused. “I thought it was all podcasts now.”

Aziraphale knelt down beside the sofa, glancing up to check that Crowley still wasn't looking. “I'm sure the BBC will have something.”

Crowley opened his mouth to answer – and at that moment, Aziraphale struck. With firm hands he took hold of Crowley's hips and pressed his mouth to the strip of bare skin, scattering it with kisses. Crowley jumped with a noise he would later fervently deny, kicking his long legs and laughing.

“Get off!” he cried, laughing delightedly. “That tickles!”

Aziraphale only held him tighter. By the time he raised his head, his cheeks were flushed and he was beaming with silly pride. Crowley was pink in the face, his hair at all angles and clashing horribly with the blush in his cheeks.

“You are a menace,” he said, catching his breath.

“And you,” said Aziraphale, sitting down on the floor and resting his head on Crowley's stomach, “are too beautiful for words.”

His head bobbed when Crowley laughed at that. “Is that what that was? A demonstration of ineffable affection?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Ineffable affection. I like that.”

Crowley's hand settled itself in Aziraphale's hair, long fingers moving meditatively back and forth across his scalp. Then they tightened slightly, tugging gently for attention.

“Hey. C'mere.”

Aziraphale turned, and saw a look in Crowley's eye that was utterly irresistible. He knelt up and leant over to brush his lips across Crowley's. It had been months since their first kiss, but it still astonished Aziraphale that he was allowed to do this, to have this, to finally shower Crowley in all the love and affection he deserved. Before long, Crowley was pulling at Aziraphale to climb up onto the sofa properly, and what could he do but oblige?

Their kisses were soft and lazy, and when they broke apart Aziraphale wriggled down to rest his head against Crowley's chest, sleepy and contented. Crowley's hand found the back of his head and once more started to stroke his hair in easy, drifting movements.

“Radio play?” Crowley's chest rumbled under Aziraphale's ear. Aziraphale hummed, neither yes nor no. Slowly, a thought drifted to the surface of his mind.

“When you were Warlock's nanny,” he said sleepily, “did you read to him?”

There was a pause, presumably as Crowley tried to work out why on earth Aziraphale was asking. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Course I did. 's what you do, isn't it, with kids. Read to them.”

Aziraphale moved his head, looking up at Crowley as best he could. “Have you looked after a lot of children?” A complicated expression crossed Crowley's face. “I'm just wondering,” said Aziraphale quickly. “It's not important.”

“No, it's fine. Don't mind. Um. Yeah. I suppose I have, actually. Governess here, nanny there – it adds up, over the years. What? What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing. It's just sweet, really.”

“It's not sweet,” Crowley said in a halfhearted attempt at demonic bravado. “I'm sure I set them all up to be proper bad 'uns.”

Aziraphale snorted. He was quite sure Crowley had done nothing of the sort. But he didn't argue. Another thought occurred to him. “Did you do voices?”

At this, Crowley's offence became quite genuine. “Did I- What do you take me for, some kind of amateur? Of course I did voices! You can't read a bedtime story without doing the voices.”

Aziraphale laughed, and cuddled his sweet, silly demon a little tighter. They lay there for a while, listening to the fire and the beat of each other's hearts. Then Aziraphale asked a question he had wanted to ask for as long as he had known what reading was.

“Crowley,” he said. “Would you please read to me?”

He felt the gust of Crowley's laughter in his hair. Then Crowley moved, bringing his head level with Aziraphale's, and kissed him. “I thought you'd never ask.” Aziraphale beamed, his heart full to bursting. “Anything in particular?” asked Crowley.

There were any number of things he could have asked for. Love poems, epic romances, tales of soulmates and star-crossed lovers overcoming the odds. But he knew what he wanted. He wanted the book that had brought Crowley back into his life after too, too long. The book he knew by heart, that had made him laugh and laugh on every re-reading. The book that he had first read knowing nothing about it other than that something in its pages had reminded Crowley of him. A book that brimmed with affection and love and silliness in equal measures. He reached, and found his copy on the table where he had expected it – battered with age, but carefully repaired and more precious to him than any other volume he owned. He handed it to Crowley, and knew he had made the right decision. Crowley's face broke out into a beautiful smile as soon as he saw it.

“Oh, good choice,” he said warmly. “Alright, get comfy. Do you want a blanket?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He clicked away his day clothes, though, replacing them with brushed cotton pyjamas and socks quite as ugly as Crowley's. Then he wriggled himself comfortable, making sure that his head was in such a position that he could see the pages of the book if he so wished.

“OK,” he said when he was done. “I'm ready.”

“Right then,” said Crowley. He cleared his throat, and began to read. “Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin...”

He did all the voices, of course. By the time he reached the fourth story in the book, the fire had burned down low and Aziraphale was snoring softly, snuffling occasionally in his sleep. Careful not to disturb him, Crowley reached down and set the book gently on the floor. Then he kissed the crown of Aziraphale's head and breathed in the perfect, warm, familiar smell.

“Silly old bear,” he murmured, and closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> ¹ Though not, of course, in possession of the actual book – his sympathy did have some limits.[return to text]
> 
> ² This was particularly damning since, as an angel, Aziraphale never got headaches unless he truly felt he'd earned one.[return to text]
> 
> ³ As much as one can stomp in one's socks.[return to text]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] You Don't Spell It... You Feel It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741322) by [indieninja92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92)




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